


Unpublished

by Dovahlock221



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief/Mourning, John Watson's Blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sad John, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-08-24 09:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8366734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221
Summary: The unpublished blogs entries by John Watson while he grieves his best friend.





	1. Chapter 1

There was a time when you knew everything about me, Sherlock. Even when I barely knew myself. You could take one look at me and tell what kind of day I was having. You would tell me what kind of feelings I was having as if they were a clear picture painted on my face. Most of the time I was unaware of those feelings. That's what kept me up at night. You could see straight through me. Or rather, straight into me.

Ironically, I kind of miss that, even after a year. As annoying as it was, I was always fascinated by you. Your mind. Though I vocalized my thoughts on your deductions on almost a daily basis, I can't help but feel I didn't tell you enough. Tell you how amazing you are; were.

I wish you were here to tell me what kind of day I am having, because I don't really know anymore.

* * *

 

I stared down at the barrel of my gun for two hours last night. Your voice is the only thing that stopped me. I could hear you as if you were in the room with me. _"What a boring way to die, John."_

If you want to leave, then leave. Get out of my head, Sherlock. I've already lost you once and I cannot bear to do it again. Get out of my head. I'm trying not to care anymore; to make it easier. You took yourself away from me. You made that choice. Not me. And you left me here to pick up the pieces. The broken pieces of my heart. I'm rotting from the inside, out.

* * *

I don't need you, you bastard. I'm trying so hard to be angry with you. What you did to me, killing yourself, was wrong. You bastard. I'm furiously angry, but not with you. How can I be? There has to be something I did or did not do. I could not make you stay with me. Why?

I see you falling in my sleep. Every time I try to run to you the crowd grows larger and larger until there is a swarm of people blocking me from trying to see if you somehow you survived the fall.

* * *

I spent three hours in the tub scrubbing my skin raw and pink, trying to erase your fingerprints, trying to wash the memory of you down the drain. It did not work. By the end, the bath water was tinted red, but still, I could feel you. I started to sob in the cold water, but no tears came out. I think they've run out.

* * *

Please, don't leave me, Sherlock. The image of you is fading and it's getting harder to see you in my dreams. Your face has become a fuzzy image. It kills me. It's like losing you all over again.

I need you. Come back to me. Don't be dead. 

The ache of missing you sinks into my marrow and I can't stop my bones from feeling like splinters. When will the thought of you leave my head? How can you want something to end so bad, knowing you will miss it when it is gone? 

Truth is, I'm not doing well. I'm losing myself. I know if you were here, you would call me stupid for my sentiment. I've never wanted to be insulted so badly.

* * *

All life is precious. Don't let it take a tragedy for you to realize that. That was my mistake. I should have cherished the moments. Those precious moments.

Chasing down criminals. Your body beneath my healing hands when you had done something stupid. Was that the only time I was useful to you? Patching you up. Readying you for the next time that you went chasing down murderers alone and coming home bloody and beaten.

And then you stupid bloody bastard had to go and do something that my hands could not fix.

* * *

 

I visited your grave today. Sat against the headstone, downed a bottle of whiskey. I screamed and cried like I always do, but I'm not sure if that was in my head or out loud. It doesn't matter anyway. No one was around to hear.

I contemplated digging up your casket, just to make sure you are really in there.

I sat there until the sky went dark. Eventually, I heard a car and saw an umbrella walking towards me for the first time since your death. You would be happy, Sherlock. I punched Mycroft in the face.

* * *

It's quiet. Incredibly so. Without you here. I hate the silence. I hate not hearing you screeching on your violin to annoy me. I hate waking up screaming from a nightmare and not hearing you soothing me back to sleep with your beautiful music. The nightmares aren't even about the war anymore. It's you. It's always you whispering "Goodbye John," in my ear. I always wake up screaming your name. The nightmares are excruciating, but at least they are the reason I still say your name every day.

* * *

I still feel your presence in my sleep. I'm trying to remember you and let go of you at the same time. The latter feels impossible. Your absence keeps me up at night. I guess, in a way, it is a better alternative to the nightmares.

Silence isn't silent anymore. But honestly, has it ever been? There's always a noise to be picked up; creaks, frequencies, decibels. Your voice has banished them all; it has been bouncing around in my head for so long that I'm not even sure it sounds like you anymore. I tried to call your cell, just to hear your voice telling my incompetent self to leave a message. Pathetic, isn't it? But, the phone blatantly informed me that it is no longer in service. Much like you, isn't it? _Out of service._


	2. Chapter 2

If I had told you the thoughts I had in the night about you, what would you have said? I wasted so much time, Sherlock. We wasted so much time.

* * *

 

I have kissed you a thousand times in my head, even when you were alive. Did you know that? Did you deduce it and then decide not to do a damn thing about it? You goddamn bastard. It’s half my fault, I know that. But how could you see that in me and not do a damn thing about it? If you did even know. I don’t know.

* * *

 

I can’t date anymore. Can’t bring girls back to the flat. I sleep in your bed now. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s another way of making sure that I don’t lose you. The thought of bringing a girl home and taking her into your bed makes me sick. Sure, I could use mine. But the last memory I have in my room is sitting on my bed holding a gun under my chin. I refuse to go back in there.

* * *

 

I miss you. I miss you so goddamn much it hurts. It still _hurts_ , Sherlock. I was hoping the pain would go away soon. But there is an aching in my chest that seems persistent on staying.  

If you were here, I would take every opportunity I had to kiss you, to let you know just how much I loved you. I’m an idiot. You were right all this time. What kind of person would let the most amazing man he has ever met slip through his fingers. An _idiot_ would.

It’s not that I enjoy being self-deprecating. I don’t hate myself. I just hate the time I let myself waste. It’s not a for sure thing, but I like the thought that if I had let you know how I feel, you would still be here. _Like_ isn’t the right word. The thought makes me yearn for time lost.

* * *

 

My therapist might say that the thoughts I have now are distorted. That realizing my feelings for you are just another form of how I’m grieving. It’s not and she’s an idiot. These feelings and thoughts started long before I watched you fall.

* * *

 

Every day without you, I can feel my soul becoming a darker shade of black. I’m so mad at the world, Sherlock; As if it’s everyone else’s fault that you’re not here anymore. I don’t know whose fault it is anymore. I've stopped trying to place the blame, but you can see how effective that’s been. I put the blame on the world, instead.

* * *

 

I bet Mycroft has found a way to hack into my computer to read these. Probably still has the flat bugged too. I’ve contemplated moving out, but what’s the point. I can’t leave. I’m not sure your voice would follow me if I left.

Fuck off, Mycroft.

* * *

 

I don't even know why I'm writing this anymore. It doesn't make me feel better. Lately, I have a hard time feeling anything. It reminds me of you. I called you a machine, Sherlock. I didn't mean it. I hate that I said that to you. It isn't true. Of course you made it very hard for people to not to think that. You were very good at putting on the cold unfeeling mask. So good, that I think that's what made you start to believe that about yourself. You were wrong. I saw past it. And what I saw when your mask was down...Well. Never mind.  

I hate that I will never be able to tell you that I didn't mean it. I hate myself for it. 

* * *

 

I can’t do this anymore, Sherlock. I can’t wait for some miracle to happen. I dream of you walking through the door telling me it was all a trick. Then I would kiss you, well, after I had punched you. It’s not going to happen. I have to be sane enough to know that.

I’m moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought <3


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